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I have often thought that John’s heavenly 
vision of golden vials filled with incense, the 
prayers of the saints, would contain many hun- 
dred thousands of prayers of parents for their 
children, especially of godly parents for ungodly 
children ; for, among the millions of earnest pe- 
titions that daily ascend to the throne, many of 
them come from hearts made sad by those 
they love the dearest grieving them the most. 
And how many of such parents have prayed 
and waited, prayed and waited, and have at last 
gone down to the grave without seeing their 
heart-breaking request answered — have died be- 
fore their dearest hope was realized. 

How is it that some truly consistent and ear- 
nest religious parents have wicked children ? 
We know it is so, but we also know it is the 
exception, and not the rule. A large majority 
of ministers, officers, and members of our Chris- 
tian churches, are children of pious parents; and 
the rule is, that pious parents have pious chil- 
dren, and where we find the exception we are 
surprised and pained, and wonder how it is. 
The sons of the good old patriarch, Jacob, al- 
most broke his heart. David was a good man, 



2 


( 1 ) 


17 


2 


ANSWERED AT LAST. 


and one whose recorded experience has been a 
blessing to millions, yet he had great trouble 
with his children. Good old Eli loved and 
served his God, yet he had two bad sons, ^nd 
many good parents since their day have had to 
mourn, and weep, and pray over their undutiful 
offspring, through many long years, and them- 
selves go to heaven before their prayers have 
been answered. But their requests are treasured 
up in golden vessels before the throne, and who 
knows how many of them will be heard ? Many 
of them have already been answered, and, for 
the comfort of sorrowing fathers and mothers, 
the following incidents are recorded : 

Fifteen years since, a person kept a small 
shop in Bochdale. She had an only brother, 
named John, residing north of the town, who 
sometimes came over to see his sister. He was 
remarkably good-looking — tall, strong, appa- 
rently healthy, and about forty years of age. 
Being well acquainted with the sister, she re- 
quested me to spend a day with her brother, and 
take him out to see the country round Rochdale, 
especially mentioning Hollingworth. The day 
was fine, and while walking leisurely toward Hol- 
lingworth Lake, we began talking a little about 
our own histories, from which I found that John 
was a farmer, and an active member of a Chris- 
18 


ANSWERED AT LAST. 


3 


tian church, and that he took more delight in 
conversing about religion than either, his crops or 
his cattle. He was a good speaker, seemed truly 
happy while telling of his conversion to God, 
and his Christian experience was rich and solid. 

“You have much to be thankful for — a good 
farm, good health, and a good hope of heaven,” 
I observed. 

“ Yes ; I have much for which I ought to be 
grateful, but I have one standing trouble that 
will go with me to the grave ; for though I know 
I am a pardoned sinner, memory is there, and 
the remembrance, of some of my sins leaves a 
sting that will never be extracted.'^ Money can- 
not do it, time will not do it, and all the people 
in the world cannot if they would. I refer to 
my conduct to my father and mother.’'^ 

For several minutes we walked on in silence, 
for John seemed deeply affected, and I did not 
know what to say. I at last asked — “ Are they 
both dead ?” 

“ Yes — many years since ; and I believe that 
my wickedness shortened their days.” 

“ Were they religious ?” 

“ Yes. I now think that two better creatures 
never lived ; . but from the time I became a young 
man, they had nothing from me but sorrow upon 
sorrow. They died when I was at the worst. I 


4 


ANSWERED AT LAST. 


believe they offered up thousands of jDrajers for 
my salvation . Many of them I heard, for we had 
daily prayer ; but long before they died I refused 
to join them — I either contrived to be absent, 
or walked out of the house — but now I set a 
value on these old pra37ers beyond language to 
express. They jhled them up in heaven for me.” 

‘‘ In what did your bad conduct principally 
consist ?” 

‘‘ Refusing to attend church, abusive language, 
neglecting work, bad company, late hours, and 
worse. But I did not think of the pain I was in- 
flicting at the time ; in fact, I did not care. A 
kind old creature, who lived with my parents for 
many years, and who now resides in a cottage 
near my farm, has told me, at times, of what 
she saw, and she always weeps while telling. 
She has several times given me the history of 
one night, part of which I knew. 

‘‘ On going out, that day she refers to, my father 
told me, with a troubled look, that my conduct 
was getting p'lst bearing, and that if I was not at 
home by eleven o’clock, he would bolt the door. 
Mother heard what he said, and looked very un- 
easy, for she knew he would perform his threat. 
My poor mother had often waited up for me much 
later, though eleven is a late hour for farmers. 
The old servant, when first telling me, said — 

20 


ANSWERED AT LAST. 


5 


“ ‘I saw your mother go up-stairs several times 
that day, and I knew what for. She knew where 
to take her troubles, and you, Johnny, found her 
plenty of them. When night came, and it began 
to be late, she became very uneasy, and many 
times opened the door, and' looked out into the 
dark, hearkening for your step with breathless 
anxiety. Your father sat reading his Bible by the 
fireside, but, poor man, he did not read much; he 
looked more into the fire than into the book, for 
he was greatly troubled. He looked often at the 
clock, and I thought he was afraid of the time 
coming. I, too, was very anxious, for I knew 
what was going on, and I w'ould have given my 
new cap to have heard your feet coming. 

“ ‘ The clock struck at last; your father quietly 
rose and bolted the door. Your mother bent 
down her head to hide her silent tears. I believe 
the shooting of that bolt went to her heart. O 
Johnny ! it is a sad thing to bolt a door on a 
child — to lock one out that ought to be in. Not 
a word was spoken. We all retired to bed, but 
not to sleep. I think your mother was long on 
her knees that night, and I have heard her say 
since, that neither she nor your father slept one 
wink. It was a sorrowful night for us all.’ 

I remember going home the night the ser- 
vant mentioned, and, finding all fast, got the barn 

21 


6 


ANSWERED AT LAST. 


ladder, and crept through the hay-loft door upon 
the haystack, thinking how cleverly I had found 
myself a bed. My father said little to me for 
several days, but my mother entreated me, for 
her sake, to give up my bad company, saying, 

‘ I should bring down their gray hairs with sor- 
row to the grave.’ And I believe she was right 
in her predictions. They both lie buried in the 
village church-yard, not far from my dwelling, 
near a little gate on the west side. I have many 
times leaned over that gate, and looked on their 
grave, with my heart almost breaking. Every 
bar of that gate has been wet with my tears, 
and one dark night I knelt on the cold stone that 
covers them, praying they would forgive me.” 

‘‘ And how did you become a changed man ?” 

“ I well remember when I was at the w'orst, I 
had continued convictions and strivings of the 
Spirit. There was nothing troubled me so much 
as the prayers of my parents. Wherever I was 
at the time of prayer, I was miserable, and 1 
many times wished they would not pray for me, 
but it is a mercy they did. For several Sundays 
after my father’s death (he died the last), I, for 
decency’s sake, attended the church, and on one 
Sabbath morning I had such a view of my mis- 
conduct, that I wondered the earth did not open 
and swallow me up. For many weeks after, I 
22 


ANSWERED AT LAST. 


7 


was in the most wretched state of mind. I 
wanted to pray, but durst not ; and when I read 
the Bible — my father’s Bible — which I some^ 
times did in private,! felt worse and worse, until 
I was forced to go on my knees and cry for 
mercy. I found mercy, and believe the prayers 
of my parents have at last been heard. Oh ! 
how I wish they had lived to see the change. I 
believe they would have lived longer. It is a 
dreadful thing for children to disobey parents, 
especially good parents. It is sure to bring sor* 
row, sooner or later. But, thank God, their 
prayers are heard. They will be surprised to 
see me in heaven, but I do believe I shall see 
them there, and it will be a meeting.” 

“Yes, John,” thought I, “you are right; it will 
be a meeting; and I believe there will be myriads 
of such meetings in heaven. The prayers of God’s 
saints, whatever they are for, are treasured up 
in golden vials to show how precious they are.” 

John’s description of his wicked conduct to his 
parents, and the sorrow he had caused them, re- 
minded meof an early acquaintance, who brought 
much sorrow to his home. How many families 
who, but for one, would be happy families, have a 
continual cloud hanging over their home in conse- 
quence of that one ! There needs but one wicked, 
disobedient child to destroy the peace of a whole 


ANSWEKED AT LAST. 


house. To fear going among our friends, to keep 
away from the social circle, lest we may be asked 
something respecting an erring sister or brother, 
or an undutiful child, is very depressing to the 
spirits. To seek secresy and retirement, and even 
keep from the house of God, because the one has 
brought some new disgrace, has been done thou- 
sands of times. Many a good man, who fondly 
hoped to see his son or sons become his stay and 
staff, and inherit his name and credit, has been 
bowed down to the earth to find them his dis- 
grace. When a good man, so circumstanced, 
sees another good man surrounded with kind, 
affectionate, dutiful sons and daughters, how his 
soul yearns with anguish over the contrast ! 
He only can give a true estimate between a good 
child and a bad one. 

Thomas, the young man now before us, caused 
his father the greatest trouble, and that good, 
kind old man had to go down to the grave, and 
never see the child, for whom he had offered 
thousands of prayers, become a changed charac- 
ter. He made the latter part of his father’s days, 
days of continual sorrow ; so much so that he 
once said to a friend with whom he was convers- 
ing about his son, that “ he felt afraid he should 
lose his natural affection for him, and become 
absolutely indifferent to his welfare, either here 

24 


ANSWERED AT LAST. 


9 


or hereafter;^’ but he finished this painful sen- 
tence with a flood of tears, showing that his love 
for him was still very powerful. 

Many times, when Thomas was out late, the 
mother would pretend to be busy sewing, that 
she might have an excuse for remaining up, so 
that the door might not be bolted against her 
wicked son ; and frequently, after her husband 
had retired to bed — not to rest — did the poor, 
afflicted creature kneel down and pour out her 
soul to God on behalf of her erring child ; and 
Thomas, more than once, when peeping through 
the keyhole, saw his mother on her knees, and 
knew for whom she 'svas praying, and though he 
was often more or less drunk, yet he could after- 
wards tell how painfully the sight affected him. 

The mornings following these late hours, bad 
company, and drink, were sorrowful mornings. 
Few words were said by any of the family at 
breakfast. The little that was eaten was eaten in 
sadness ; but the cause of all this would seldom 
be there, for he was like almost all such, too big a 
coward to face the consequences of his own 
wicked doings, and so contrived to get out of the 
house, or remained in bed. He was in bed one 
Sunday morning when all the rest of the family 
were gone to their place of worship. The subject 
that morning was David’s sorrow for his son 

25 


10 


ANSWERED AT LAST, 


Absalom. The preacher wept much while speak- 
ing of the broken hearts of godlj^ parents — 
broken by the conduct of ungodly children. 
Poor man ! he spoke from experience, and he 
was speaking to some who could weep with him. 

That w^as the last time the father of Thomas 
attended a place of worship. He gradually sank 
in health, lingering for many months. Step by 
step he went to the grave, without any particular 
disease. The last day of his life he wished to have 
a private interview with his son ; he felt anxious 
to give him his blessing and a last warning while 
he was able to speak. Thomas was led into the 
room of his dying father by his weeping mother, 
with tears rolling down her cheeks. He sat down 
beside the bed ; the father stretched out his thin, 
clammy hand, and Thomas took hold of it, wait- 
ing his father’s words, but none were spoken. 
Speech had fled — he never spoke again. 

Every day that Thomas went to his work he 
had to pass within a few yards of his father’s 
grave. I have seen him several times in the 
dark, looking through the rails on the spot where 
his parent lay buried, and once ventured to ask 
him how he felt as he was looking on the last 
resting-place of his good, Christian father. 

“ Oh ! he was a decent old chap,” was his 
reply, and went whistling away. 

2G 


ANSWERED AT LAST. 


11 


Shortly after the night I last saw him, he left 
the countrji, and little was heard of him for some 
time. One morning a letter came, addressed to 
liis mother. It was the handwriting of her son — 
the undutiful son of a thousand prayers. On the 
last page of the letter were the following words : 

“ Mother, do you everfeel your heart hard when 
you pray ? I have been on my knees many times, 
asking God to forgive me for my conduct to you 
and my poor dead father ; but oh ! how hard my 
heart feels ! I want to pray, but, somehow, can- 
not. Yet I cannot give it up. Most of this letter 
has been written on my knees. The Lord have 
mercy upon me, and soften my heart, and bend 
my stiff neck. O Lord ! keep me and save me.’’ 

When the mother received this letter, she, like 
Hezekiah, went in private andspread itbefore the 
Lord. Oh ! how she prayed, again and again, that 
her ungodly, wandering child might now become 
a new creature in Christ Jesus. She rejoiced over 
the letter, but she rejoiced with trembling. Hope 
was now brightening, but doubt still lingered, and 
she was afraid to say a word about it even to her 
most intimate friends. But letter after letter fol- 
lowed, all in the same strain, and then came one 
that money could not buy, telling the dear, dear 
mother that Thomas was now a pardoned child 
of God. The piled-up prayers of the father in 

27 


12 


ANSWEIIED AT LAST. 


heaven, and the mother on earth, were answered 
at last. ii 

Five years have now rolled away since Thomas 
wrote this letter to his mother, but still he re- 
mains a sincere and active Christian. He holds 
high office in the church, and is much beloved 
and respected, and is an unspeakable comfort to 
his widowed mother; but Thomas has often 
been heard to say that he never thinks of his 
father without a bitter pang of sorrow. 

“ But are we always to wait until death be- 
fore our prayers are answered ?” some may ask. 
No, not always, though many have done so. 

Good old Mr. GrimshaAV, one of the most popu- 
lar and useful preachers in his day, had a most 
wicked son. He prayed for him long, but died 
without an answer. This son, on one occasion, 
entering the church where his father had often 
preached, was greatly overcome with sorrow and 
grief because of his sins, and, while at a prayer- 
meeting held after the service, in bitterness of 
soul, he besought the Lord, for Christ’s sake, to 
have mercy upon him, and pardon his transgres- 
sions. His prayer was heard, and, in the fulness 
of his joy, he leaped to his feet, and lifting up 
both hands toward heaven, called out with a loud 
voice — Oh ! what will my father say ? — what 

will my father say ?” Yes, and what will many 
28 


ANSWERED AT LAST. 


13 


a father and mother yet say when they shall see 
their returi^d prodigals in glory ? But we do not 
always wait so long. There are thousands whose 
hopes have been so long deferred that hope was 
almost gone, who have yet lived to see their hopes 
realized. Praying breath is not spent in vain, 
and we give the following as an illustration : 

Near the town of Bury, a place about five miles 
from Bochdale, there formerly resided a good old 
Christian, of the name of Crompton. This man 
had been long a laborer in the Lord’s vineyard, 
and had been the instrument of much good to 
others. How inscrutable is this truth to many, 
and yet it is a truth. Ministers, Sunday-school 
teachers, and others, who are anxiously working 
and praying for the conversion of souls, can see 
others saved, and those for whom they are the 
most concerned hardening their hearts against all 
efforts made on their behalf. They see many of 
the most unlikely brought to Christ, and those 
they have the most reason for believing should be 
converted, become the most hopeless and hard- 
ened. Nothing but faith in God and a conscious- 
ness of duty could keep such men to their work ; 
reasoning never could. X This is one of God’s les- 
sons to teach us that the souls of other children — 
the souls of strangers — are as precious as the 
souls of those we feel we could die for ; and if 


14 


ANSWERED AT LAST. 


we have to preach and pray with sadder hearts, 
it makes us more in earnest, and ’^at to us is 
a gre^t grief may prove to others an unspeak- 
able blessing. Our veiy sorrows may, in this 
respect, be turned to the glory of God. ^ 

Crompton was in this mysterious position. He 
had one son, named Samuel, who was to him a 
source of continual anxiety. He had trained him, 
in example and precept, with much care ; and 
while he was young, while he could “ give him a 
kiss and put him to bed,” he was full of bright 
thoughts for his future; but as he rose up to man- 
hood, and his disposition began to unfold itself, 
he turned out to be a very ungrateful and rebel- 
lious son. He left his home, wandered for seve- 
ral years from place to place, and grew every day 
more wicked. All news from Samuel was bad 
news ; all reports respecting his conduct only 
deepened the wound in his father’s heart. He 
wished him at home, yet feared his coming. He 
seldom mentioned his name, yet there was no 
name so often thought of, and especially when 
the old man was at prayer, then he was never 
forgotten. 

Oh! what millions of prayers have followed the 
steps of wandering prodigals! I have often 
thought that one reason why so many emigrant 
ships safely ride the storms of the trackless deep, 

30 


ANSWERED AT LAST. 


15 


is because so many prayers follow them. Cromp- 
ton’s pray(|p followed Samuel, and, after 
many years, he, m shattered health, in the ^ords 
of the prodigal, said, I will arise and go to my 
father.” His father received the returning son 
with mixed feelings of pain and pleasure — pain 
to see him so very miserable and wretched in ap- 
pearance, and pleasure to see that he was yet out 
of hell. The change in Samuel’s external appear- 
ance was not greater than the internal. His 
haughty soul was bowed to the dust, and he was 
come home to implore forgiveness, and to tell of 
the wonderful power of saving grace to the chief 
of sinners. Oh ! what joyful news for the poor old 
father! His long-sorrowful countenance beamed 
with cheerfulness. He had many times prayed, 
‘‘Lord, whatever may become of my Samuel’s 
body, do save his soul,” and now he saw him 
again, weak in body, but happy in a consciousness 
of sins forgiven. Disobedience to parents had 
shortened his life, as it has done to thousands. 
The sin of the soul was pardoned, but the conse- 
quence to the body was a long, wasting sickness. 

During the latter part of Samuel’s sickness, his 
father watched over him with the greatest tender- 
ness. They could now kneel together at the mer- 
cy-seat, and talk of the wonderful Avay in which 
the Lord brought him to see himself a sinner, and 


16 


ANSWERED AT LAST. 


how much better it was for him to go down to an 
early grave and go to heaven, tlj^n on in re- 
belli^ and die an old man, unsaved. It was 
painful to the aged man to see his son wasting 
away before his eyes, but it was far less painful 
than to see him living a life of wickedness — his 
soul was saved, and that was to his father the 
principal thing. 

Mrs. Horrocks (now residing in Hey wood), who 
was present at the moment of parting, describes 
it as a sight to be long remembered. Speaking of 
Samuers death, she said : “ The last day came — 
the day of parting — the day of death. Samuel’s 
summons to the eternal world arrived, but the 
messenger brought no terrors. With his last 
breath he praised his God, and blessed his father; 
and when, with that last breath, his spirit glided 
away to the realms of the blest, the old man fell 
on his knees, and, stretching out his hands over 
his dead child, his long, white locks hanging over 
his shoulders, and tears streaming down his 
cheeks, thanked God, in choking sobs, that his 
Samuel was now in glory. ‘ Yes, Lord,’ said 
the old man, ‘ I have long prayed, and prayed, 
and hoped against hope, but now Thou, in Thine 
own way, hast heard me. My child is safe — 
my Samuel is in heaven, and all my prayers for 
his salvation are ‘ answered at last.’ ” 


notAo#he fiest seeies. • 




The reader may rest assured that these narratives 
%e substantially true, as hundreds in Hochdale and its 
neighborhood can testify. The names given are the 
real names of the parties mentioned, and many of 
them are still alive. 

For a long time I have been a visitor among the 
poor and the outcast, and four years ago opened for 
them a place of worship, called the Chapel for the 
Destitute,’^ to which large congregations have gathered 
of the REALLY DESTITUTE. Some of these Tales have 
been given in my Annual Reports, and their favorable 
reception induces me to offer them for a wider circula- 
tion, 

1 am a tradesman, and make no pretension to litei’- 
ary ability. If He whom I desire to serve condescends 
to use me as a medium of good to others, my earnest 
^vish will be realized. To Him my prayer has been, 

Hold Thou my right hand.^^^ 

J. ASHWORTH. 

Broadfield, Rochdale, 1862. 


p 


« w* 


f STM&E TALES FSOI HUMBLE LIFE. 

BY JOHN ASHWOipS* 






a « 

Fine Eclitionj;Four Series, cloth, limp. The First and Second, 
bound in one volume, cloth, boards, or extra cloth, gilt 
' edges, Yv'itli^steel portrait of the Author; also Third and 
% Fourth in^^ne volume, gilt edges. 

l^t^e remarkable Tales are still kept as Tracts, of which 
nearly Three Milliou^^^ave already been sold. 

>I3isT SEKIES. 


1. Mery; a T.alp of Sorro'y. 

‘Z. The Dark IDjur. » [Men. 

3. A Wonder; or, The Two Old 

4. Sanderson and Little Alice. 

5. Wilkins. hand II. 

G & 7. The Dark Nicht. Parts I. 


KECOl^D SERIES. 


14. Mother.?. [Prayer. 

15. Twenty Pounds ; orjl'he Liti.'o 

16. All is Well. •'%. 

17. lilv Uncle; or, John#\'’.s Box. 

18. Old Adam. ' > , 

11). I'Jllen Williams. 


TKIRD SERIES. 


2r>. The Lost Curl. 

27. Emmott. 

28. The Widow. 

29. Sarah ; or, “ I Will have Him ! •’ 

30. My Sick Friends. Part 1. 

31. My Sick Friends. Part 11. 


George. 

3« Jumea Burrows. 

34. .lolin and Mary. 

35. Sad Story. 

3G. L’.icy's Legavcy. 
37. Edmund. 


EOIJRTH SERIES. 


oS. Tlie Golden Wedding. 

39. William the Tutor. 

40. Fathers. 

41. Little Susan. 

42. Old Matthew. 

4B. Old Aba. 


44. IMillv. 

4.5. Tho'Fog Bell. 
40. IMrs. Bow'den. 

47. Happy Nod. 

48. Harry. 

40. A Dancer. 


WALKS IN CANAAN. 


By samo Author. 304 pages, with 
extra cloth, gilt edges. 


fiiii-page illustrations. Cloth, or 


!it* 4 c“‘\Ir. Ashworth’s Tales and Books aro above mv prai.so; thev are 
circulated I hcdie\ e, not by thousands, but by millions, and the fcoult 
is, that the name ot John Ashworth is a Household Word, not only in 
the lordly halls, but in the lowly homes of England.”— D?\ Guthrie 


L 


8. Joseph ; or, The Silent Corrt^r. 

9. Jly Motlier. 

10. Nill’and his Dogs. 

11. IMy New Friends. Part I. 

12. IMy New Friends. Part II. 

13. My New Friends, Part III. 


2f». Trials. 

21. Answered at Last. 

22. Priscilla. [Stsp- 

23. .Tulia; or. The First Wrong 

24. No Cotton. 

25. My Young Ragged Friends. 


